


And Now I'm Sick, My Heart Isn't Strong Enough

by sapphicwonder



Series: THE GIRL WHOS HEART WAS MADE OF STONE: The Story of Athevera Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Backstory, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Elvhen Language, Gen, Inquisitor Backstory, Lavellan Backstory, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17821436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicwonder/pseuds/sapphicwonder
Summary: Athevera Lavellan and how she becomes who she is. More backstory characters like Miranni, Marivelen, Nelas and Isanami. An Orphan from Clan Ralaferin makes her way to Clan Lavellan.





	And Now I'm Sick, My Heart Isn't Strong Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I changed a bunch because my friend and i’s canon + characters run together so this was easier - and made more sense. It’s also better quality. Enjoy! Read the end notes.

Athevera learned about loss at a very young age, as the Dalish do. Before she was Athevera Lavellan, long before she was the Keeper’s Apprentice. A youngling, really, just a child. She learned first hand what the word loss means.

She’s born to the name Athevera and the Clan Ralaferin, though as she grows older and splits the name from her identity, she forgets it little by little, tearing bits of it off her like the sticky part of a leaf. She’s traded to a Clan that she met when she was far younger at Arlathvhen - Lavellan. But that is not until later.

Her parents are the first she loses, and she promises herself she’ll never love again. Not truly. Duty and patriotism will _never_ replace real love. This is when she decides good things don’t exist, not really, and her smiles become far and in between.

When she becomes an apprentice, she’s overjoyed. She’s young and enthusiastic and loves to collect herbs and other useful material. She makes her first knife with Master Aeon, who had come to see her as his own. They found the materials themselves and bound it together. When it was done, he placed it into her waiting hands and she looked up with the brightest smile, reserved for things such as this. For the truly _good_ things.

He had already begun teaching her how to hunt. She was a promising huntress, after all. Silent, impassive, and most of all: deadly. At eight summers, she was able to hit small prey through the eye at long distances. 

When she could take down a large bird on her own, she was allowed to go with the regular hunting party. She was almost twelve, now, she had noticed with little enthusiasm. _What’s the point,_ she wondered, _of celebrating something that will happen all the time?_ She was just ready to learn more.

As the Dalish are prone to do, she learned of pain very early. She learned when she scraped her knees after play fighting with her agemates. She learned from the hunger pangs in her stomach as they travelled the empty roads and the hollow forests in harsh winter or the dead of night; chewing on elfroot and mint or nuts to keep it satisfied but not quite enough. 

She learned of pain when she learned she was a mage. 

At first, she looked down in wonder. Her eyes, sky blue with the lightest purple around her irises sparkled with unlocked mana and her mouth was parted in surprise. She closed her fists and smiled. This was hers. 

She decides to get Mythal’s vallaslin when she is worthy of it - a protector, the judge.

Things changed really quickly. On her twelfth birthday, they told her.   
  
“Athevera, do you know why you’re here?” The Keeper was a tall woman, imposing in stature but kind in nature.   
  
The young girl fiddled with her knife, always strapped to her waist, just in case, because danger awaited them at every step. A small frown tugged at her lip and harshened the scar running through it. 

“No, Hahren,” she replied quietly. “Am I in trouble?”  
  
The Keeper, Elindra, and Neria, their First, share a look of pity.   
  
“You are a mage. You know this much.”

Athevera nodded, still looking at the ground. She had not yet learned to look what she feared in the eye.  
  
“Athevera, _da’assan,_ we are sending you to another clan,” Elindra said gently.   
  
The girls head shot up, blonde curls flying. She looked between the two women and realized they were serious. 

“But why?” she asks hoarsely. “Am I not a good enough hunter? I thought Hahren Aeon said-“  
  
“No, no, _da’lan.”_ the First knelt down in front of Athevera. “You are a wonderful hunter, full of potential. But you are also a mage, and we do not need so many mages. The Templars make it so.” The word ‘Templars’ made the young girl’s blood go cold. She shook gently, her eyes watering.   
  
“So,” she said carefully, her voice cracking, “where am I going?”   
  
Elindra peered at her with kind eyes. “There is another clan. You played with their fledglings during Arlathvhen when you were but a wee one - though I doubt you remember it. They are in need of an apprentice to become their First.”   
  
Athevera was stock still with stray tears running down her face, not a sniffle to be heard. “But...” her voice was but a whisper. “... I’ll be alone…”   
  
The Keeper knelt as well, now, taking Athevera’s shoulders in her hands. “Look at me,” she commanded. The young girl complied. “You have a duty to your people. No, _da’lan._ Not to the Clan, but to your people, to the Dalish. You must go to Clan Lavellan, and you must become their First.”   
  
Athevera only nodded. When Elindra realized she would say no more, she released her.  
She ran from the aravel as quickly as possible, not caring for the stealth of a hunter or the careful footwork of a warrior. Dirt flew where her feet touched the ground and she ran to the only person she felt was safe, now: the man she has apprenticed under for three and a half years.   
  
The tears were pooled in her eyes, a sky of blue-purple and fear. The moon shone over the clan resting for the night, basking the aravels in it’s light. He turns to say hello, to ask her to come look at what he has, but one look at her face and he knows.

He knows.

  
He knew it was coming. They had too many mages as it was, and another Clan had sent out a request for an Apprentice. He kneels before her and pulls her into a tight hug. He’s had many apprentice under him, but none were as promising as her. He had bonded with her as if she were his own child. He would miss her dearly.  
  
“Hahren, why do I have to go?” Her voice cracks freely now, a small sniffle escaping her nose.  
  
“Oh, _da’assan,”_ he murmurs, gently stroking her hair as she clings to him. He can feel the shaking sobs wracking her body. Her soul has felt so much grief. “It is your duty, Vera.” he says softly. 

The one person allowed to call her that. The only person allowed to call her that aside from Mamae or Baba. 

She snaps. “But… I don’t care about my _telamaan_ duty!” She finally fumed, stamping her foot and moving away from him. Her cheeks were swollen with tears, her eyes puffy and lips quivering. “I don’t want to leave,” her voice cracks. “I don’t have anyone else!” The pre-teen dissolves into sobs, bringing her hands up to her face.   
  
He feels a tear run down his cheek. It hurts him to hurt Vera, though he knows it must be done. He would even go with her if he could. But this is her journey, and hers alone.   
  
“Vera,” he calls. She looks up, a picture of despair. “Come here.” She takes tiny steps towards him until she’s standing in front of his crouched form, looking down. She sniffles and wipes her eyes.   
  
“Do you want to see what I was working on before you came here?” Her ears perked up at that, twitching. “Come, I’ll show you.” He took her small hand in his and brought her to his work table.   
  
A bow. A finely crafted bow of iron bark and other materials she did not yet know the name of, but would eventually. 

“Woah,” she breathed.  
  
He smiles. “It’s for you, Athevera.”   
  
She startled. “Me?”   
  
“For you. My most promising apprentice.” His smile was wide and eyes bright.   
  
The girl deflated, pale eyebrows knitting and ears falling. “I’m not a hunter's apprentice anymore,” she said quietly. “I’m a Keeper’s Apprentice.”   
  
“Well, then. I will give you this so you never forget who taught you how to survive.” He looked at her closely and kneeled down again, taking both her hands in his. “Athevera, these woods are your home. You know them well. Be safe and swift, and don’t be afraid to use what I’ve taught you.” 

The blondes face crumpled and she threw her arms around his neck, but did not cry. He wrapped his arms around her. 

“You are so smart, da’lan. Remember that. Show them. The halla listen to your careful touch, your soothing voice,” he whispered urgently. “You can do this.”  
  
Athevera had hugged him tighter with each sentence. She never wanted to let go. “I’ll miss you, Hahren.” she said.   
  
“I know,” he replied. “I’ll miss you too.”   
  
The next morning, they find her in the halla pen: lying soundly asleep on one of them, the rest calmly standing by. She has her wild curls tied back with a thong of leather, bow already wrapped around her back - and a quiver for it that her Master had made off to the side. 

She had initially stayed up whittling to make arrows to sit in it because she refused to go with an empty quiver, but Aeon graciously supplied her some instead. _A parting gift,_ he said. 

Her knife was strapped to her waist, along with a satchel of her belongings: a small wooden carving of a halla that her father made her, her mother’s necklace, and small things like elfroot salves, leather to tie her hair and precious few other things.

  
The halla woke her, nudging her gently before letting out a small bleat. Athevera smiled and stretched, patting her faithful friend. The Halla know she’s thankful.   
  
She walks past while Hahren Elindra and the Keeper from the other clan - Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan, she’s pretty sure - talk. She has something to do.   
  
“Hahren! Master Aeon!” She calls. She turns heads, but has eyes for one person.   
  
“Yes, Athevera?” He looked down at her, wondering what she could be rifling through her bag for.   
  
She holds out her halla figurine.   
  
“Athevera, I can’t...” A loss for words. He knows how much that means to her, remembers the nights she had stayed up holding it, rubbing the smooth wood.   
  
“You can.” she says firmly. “I want you to remember me. Remember Babae. This was his Clan; It’s not mine any longer. You must remember him.” Her hand was outstretched, handing it to him. 

 _Take it,_ her face said. It was determined and, not wanting to upset her, he reached out and took it. She smiled, almost like she was trying to comfort him when it should be the other way around.  
  
“Goodbye; _Ethas na.”_ She says quietly. 

Her eyes harden, but her smile doesn’t leave until she turns away.  
  
_“Tuelanen ama na,_ Athevera.” And then quietly to himself, _“Ir abelas, da’lan.”_ he shakes his head.   
  
Athevera did not hear him. She took her mother’s pendant and slipped it around her neck, leaving only her jars of salves and herbs in her bag. She clenched her fists, the worn leather gloves she made with Aeno creasing comfortingly under her hands. She swallowed and approached the two women conversing quietly.   
  
_“Nuvenan ma son,_ Keeper Deshanna. I pray your journey was not hard.” Her voice is quiet, face set. “Thank you for this opportunity. I will not disappoint you.”   
  
The woman had dark brown hair and kind eyes with the vallaslin of Mythal on her face. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. 

 _“Savhalla,_ Athevera,” she smiles softly, but it was not returned. “I am not Keeper Deshanna - I am Miranni, her daughter. I apologize if you were expecting her.” When all there is in response is silence, Miranni clears her throat. “I have heard much about you. Come, we have much ground to cover before night falls.”   
  
The small girl nodded. “Goodbye, Keeper Elindra.” She grabbed the tall woman’s hand and placed a single flower in it, closing her hand around it.   
  
Her mother’s favorite: crystal grace.   
  
“We Dalish are built to remember,” she says evenly, looking her former Keeper in the eyes. “And I will not be here to remind you all of Mamae and Babae. I am no longer of Ralaferin, so you must. Do not forget them.” 

It’s an order, a demand. 

The Keeper nods slowly. “I won’t forget them, Athevera. We won’t.” With a satisfied nod, she turns to Miranni and nods once again.

They set off in silence, Athevera walking in the foliage as if she was part of it, foot wrappings making not a sound.

  
Miranni tells her about Clan Lavellan. “Don’t be worried, _da’lan,”_ she says affectionately, causing Athevera to stiffen, but the woman either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “My own daughter - Marivelen - should be so excited to meet you. I’m sure the other fledglings are, too.”   
  
She tells her of their Clan, of what her responsibilities will be when she is the First. “I do not want you to worry, though,” she says easily. “No one expects you to worry about being First after a short time of being an Apprentice. There is much to do, _gaildahlas._ Remember not to stress,” she advises kindly   
  
Athevera, now Lavellan, nodded. “Of course, Hahren.” 

The woman smiles and replies gently, “Oh, please! Call me Miranni. I am no Hahren, you know.”  
  
Athevera replies monotone, “ _Ir abelas,_ it will not happen again, then.”

They do not speak for the rest of the night.  
  
In the early morning rays, Miranni awoke expecting to see a still resting child next to her.  But Athevera was gone. Her heart began racing and she frantically looked around her.   
  
“Athevera? Athevera-“   
  
_“Telahna!_ You’ll scare it away.” She hisses from her place in a nearby tree, bow aimed at a large bird. Athevera breathes in deeply and quietly, and the twang of the bow string is the only indication that anything happened. She scrambles from the tree and down to the ground, back in front of the Keeper’s daughter in a minute: carrying a large bird.   
  
“We can break our fast.” Athevera shrugs, sitting down on a log to begin the process of plucking and dressing the bird. 

Miranni knew that the young girl had known that she had brought food for the journey, but she says nothing. If this makes the girl feel more secure, then she’ll allow it.  
  
Later, when the sun is finally coming up into the sky, they are on their way, bellies full. Athevera had spent time tending to her bow and knife, treating her bow with a tenderness that she had not expressed to her new Clan member so far.   
  
“Wait.” The quiet voice is almost missed by the Caretaker, but she stops in front of her and turns her head. Swift hands are braiding pieces of elfroot from the plant, cutting it from the stem and stuffing it into her satchel. “Elfroot is important,” she says quietly. “You never know when you may need it.” 

Miranni observes the scar cutting from above the child’s left brow, skipping her eye and continuing from the middle of her cheek; the hollowed eyes and her grave tone.  
  
They move on.   
  
They make good time, stopping only two more nights before making it to where Clan Lavellan planned to meet the new Apprentice. The children scowled, ears flat and arms crossed as Miranni introduced her. Keeper Deshanna greeted her gently with eyes that seemed to know everything.   
  
Athevera made eye contact with them, arms crossed, forcing her ears to stay down. She will be strong. She will lead Clan Lavellan as their First. She lifts her chin and stares them down, the twin blue-purple skies now a storm, piercing gaze and impassive expression causing them to avert their eyes and whisper.   
  
_I am Athevera Lavellan, Apprentice to the Keeper of Clan Lavellan._   
  
She repeats it until her thoughts bleed through each other. _She is Lavellan now._   
  
Keeper Deshanna teaches her to read during the cold nights. When she deems her understanding of common good enough, she moves to writing. Athevera moves through it easily, molding the language to her mind.   
  
Deshanna is impressed with her, with her quick tongue and fast mind. She moves onto simple magic concepts: mana, potions and poisons, herbs. She harvests more herbs than she can count, but she needs to be useful now that she isn’t a Hunter’s Apprentice.

She dries out the leather herself, in the end, using string left over from sewing to string the pages together. 

When Deshanna finds it, the leather bound book made by her own hands and crude looking but held together, she pats the girl on the head and adds another plant to it - _Felandaris,_ she says. _Demon weed._   
  
Miranni and Athevera spend more time together than she had planned. Being a Caretaker, most children spend the day with her. And Athevera loves the children, and they her. She doles out protection and punishment in equal measure, settling problems before any tears are shed. 

A sign of a natural diplomat, Deshanna thought. But then...

Athevera scowled. She leaned against a tree sharpening her silverite daggers with a slow precision.

She was forced to leave her only family, the closest person she had to a Father, to go to a Clan that had no mages only to find out - much to her chagrin - that just a year later of studying under Keeper Deshanna that another child did have magic. Her granddaughter.

Marivelen.

Deshanna insisted that Marivelen wasn’t picked as First because of being born to Clan Lavellan - or because she was her blood - but she scoffs at that. 

Athevera’s hair was shorn off by another fledgling because they didn’t think she’d be a good enough First. 

Of course it would be easier to have your own, Clan-Born child take up the mantle. Leaving her in the dirt, with no reason to be there except that she’s already been there since she was twelve.

She can’t go backwards now, but she feels lost. Aloof. This isn’t her Clan, but neither is Ralaferin - the name is getting harder to recall now - anymore. What is she supposed to do? She doesn’t want to be a halla-keeper, as much as Keeper Deshanna sympathetically tries to encourage her, or be a lorekeeper. 

Miranni had tried to suggest she becomes an Apprentice under her as a Caretaker, but she shot that idea down quickly. She wants to do what she had to come to this Clan to do; be the First in a Clan short of mages.

Sighing, Athevera moves off of the tree and sheathes her daggers. Her and Marivelen were friends when she first arrived, but as it’s years later and Marivelen got named First, needless to say they drifted apart. 

Mari had seen her studying - not for the first time - while she quietly picked at some fruit, barely taking her eyes off the pages. It was a routine Athevera fell easily into for the first year or so.

When Marivelen approached, Athevera had frowned. She didn’t say anything, only tilted her head. As if to say _‘Why are you over here? Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know I am not wanted here?’_

Yet wordlessly, Mari sat down next to her, every now and then asking about what she was reading, much to the blonde girls initial agitation - But for the most part stayed quiet.

Eventually she began to answer shortly, hoping it would encourage her to leave. Instead she moved closer, their legs touching, which Athevera narrowed her eyes at - and asked more questions. She pointed at pictures and eventually the blonde snickered at one of her jokes.

The brunette took this as encouragement and the next day, at the same mealtime and the same place, she sat down next to her again.

Athevera sits down on the edge of their camp lines, far into the forest. Her thoughts wander as she takes in the surrounding wilderness; the calming sound of wind rushing through the leaves chasing after itself in an endless cycle, the soft cooing of birds and chirping of bugs.

She had begun to think of Mari as a friend. She wanted to be her friend, needed it, even. The older girl specifically remembers when she had her hair cut off by that other fledgling, ironically named Isanami, _the vengeful blade_ \- sheared roughly and while she was pressed against a tree. He had yanked a fist full, causing her to whimper but not cry out. He sawed back and forth with his knife and tears ran down her face as the precious pieces of innocence fell to the ground and he spit on the pieces. “len’alas lath’din” he called her.

_Dirty child no one loves._

When he left, she sat there detached. This was before she had her daggers, before she had asked to be trained to fight. Sitting, sniffling and puffy eyed, until she decided to do something about it. Which is how, eventually, Deshanna found her that night; with a new hair style and frame of mind. 

The next day when Marivelen saw the scratches on her face and arms, red-rimmed eyes staring down at her book - a book on plants this time - and a new, obviously self done haircut, she went to sit down but was cut off by a hiss. The other girl had jumped, startled. Teeth bared and shoulders hunched defensively, she looked positively frightening and radiated vibes of leave me alone. Slowly, though, Mari got closer despite the glares being sent her way and sat down next to her friend.

“I don’t want to talk.” She snapped with red rimmed eyes and cracked lips.

“That’s okay,” Mari said softly. “I don’t mind.”

This response had floored her. Everyone wanted something from her, she just expected the other girl to ignore her wishes. But true to her word she stayed next to her friend dutifully, laying on the ground with her eyes closed in silence. Marivelen was content with sunbathing quietly after all her daily chores were done. The only other thing she did say was:

“I like your haircut, by the way.”

This had caused Athevera to turn to look at her, bewildered, before releasing a snort and turning back to her book. Mari counted it as a win.

The blonde didn’t tell and Mari didn’t ask. Eventually - a few days after she began training with daggers - she explained what happened with Isanami. Marivelen clenched her fists and stomped off, telling her she’d be back later. Athevera shrugged and went back to reading. 

Later, she ate in her normal spot tucked in the shadows with a book, and she spotted the boy who had cut her hair off sporting a black eye. Marivelen plopped down next to her without a word and began to eat her food, a huge self-satisfied grin on her face. When questioned on whether or not she did it, Mari answered evasively, but with a glimmer of mirth in her eye and a smirk tipping one side of her lips up.

Marivelen had suggested she come get familiar with her Mamae, and after weeks of digging her heels in the mud, Athevera relented - and it turned out they knew each other! The blonde had thought Mari’s name was familiar. 

Now the woman checks up on her semi-frequently and worries when she doesn’t take care of herself (which is apparently more often than not - Miranni, Marivelen’s Mamae, did not seem happy with the lack of care on her part for Athevera. But that wasn’t really Keeper Deshanna’s fault, she’d kept to herself.)

She frowns again and looks up at the sky. How did things go so wrong? One second they’re growing closer and finally giving her some sense of normalcy, the next Deshanna is informing her that she will no longer be required to be First, as another mage in the Clan was found. 

Her automatic plan was to run, to go tell Marivelen and hide with Miranni and her family, until her friend shuffled out from behind the Keeper. Athevera tried to not take it personally, but couldn’t help the red-hot anger that coursed through her. She nodded, answered politely - and a bit curtly - before taking off as soon as Deshanna turned her back. 

She had climbed the closest tree she could find, hiding up there as long as she could. Marivelen had called for her, echoing through the trees and hoping Athevera would answer, but she clutched her knees closer to her chest and stayed quiet. 

No matter if all she had wanted was to climb down and cry in her friends arms, to show her weakness and open up. It was principle, now, she couldn’t do that. No, she reasoned, it was better to never open up to anyone again. How could she be sure something like this wouldn’t happen again? She couldn’t. They didn’t talk in the years that followed, and it was probably for the best. 

Marivelen, now fourteen and Athevera on her fifteenth summer, were different in every way possible. Athevera had no use for the books that she had been studying and gave them back to Deshanna wordlessly, but Mari didn’t even take them up until her own twelfth year had come; something that irritated her to no end. But now that she wasn’t going to be First, it didn’t matter.

She grew further and further apart from the Clan as she got older, eating alone and quietly harvesting herbs on her own time and leaving them with the healers or Deshanna before departing again. 

While she had never expected to take up using her bow again, rather keeping it for sentimental purposes, she decided she would use her skills for good use. 

After she wore down Deshanna, of course. It all boiled down to Athevera snapping, “You are not my mamae! She’s not coming back!”

And by setting this line between them, Athevera was able to go Hunting again. Lavellan’s Hunting Party was tolerable to her. They were impressed that despite having not practiced in a few years due to her studying to be First, she was still a damn good shot and a decent tracker. The only one who had a problem with her was Isanami, though they ignored each other as much as possible.

Deshanna did not always give her express permission for Athevera to leave on Hunting or Scouting Expeditions. When the early rays of dawn to leave on her own, waiting far above the trails in a tree, she would keep an eye out for the hunting party that would be leaving only a little bit later than she had.

She nearly gave them a heart attack, the first time she hopped out of the tree. Chewing elfroot with her bow in hand. “Well? The _aenor_ will not wait forever.”

She found camaraderie in them, a family away from family, yet inside family. It was a confusing dynamic, to be sure.

  
Her time hunting and figuring out things as Second gave her time to pressure one of the warriors in her clan to teach her to work with daggers. He refused, at first. What need have she for blade work, he claimed, when she could shoot a bow and was a mage? But Athevera was nothing if not determined.   
  
She charmed the weaponsmith; batting her eyes and asking if he could help her craft a pair of blades. The man laughed at first, quickly quieting at her serious expression. He saw the intense look in her eye, the roughly shorn hair: the devotion to the task she set out to do. “I think I have something better for you.”   
  
He gives her a pair of already crafted blades, once belonging to an Apprentice of his. “Adequate for training,” he smiled as he handed the gift to her. “But when you’ve gotten handy with these, we will craft something better for you together.” He reminded her much of Hahren Aeon, and she spent much time in his company even as she tried to avoid him and the feelings he evoked.

  
And so Athevera marched to the warrior she had asked to train her days before, showing him her blades impatiently. He wasn’t much older than she was. They could’ve been siblings, and argued much like it. His name was Neslas.

“Okay! Alright,” he mutters, exhaling a long breath. “You have stealth down, but what we’ll start working on is your footwork and hand to hand…”  
  
By the time Athevera was fifteen summers, she was carrying hand crafted silverite blades with halla horn handles strapped around her thighs. She was strong and resourceful. Magic crackled like a storm underneath her finger tips, unrestrained and capable. The children responded to her as they did their mothers, the halla relaxing around her presence.   
  
The next year, Templar’s attacked their encampment. She bared her teeth as she did her blades to protect a little girl; never drawing her staff. It’s this that earns her her vallaslin - the mark of Sylaise over her eye.

Her blades drawn in each hand she put the training to good use. She slipped in and out of each heavy warriors reach, fighting alongside the hunters to protect what’s theirs. Hers. She hisses and spits and protects because she’s built for this, for protecting. Her face is splattered in blood and there’s sweat dripping down her back but she will not give up.  
  
“Athevera!” A child’s shrill voice made out through the chaos. Panicked eyes met hers and she didn’t think; she acted. The little girl was young, only seven summers. She had helped her learn of herbs and walked with her as they traveled, letting her touch the handles of her weapon. 

She would not lose another.  
  
She sprinted across the chaotic battlefield, mottled with the body’s of Templar’s, darting in and out to reach her. The tears were freely running down the child’s face, backed against a tree. Athevera crashed into the large Templar, causing him to stumble and she took up a defensive stance in front of the little girl. He laughed at her, a bone chilling laugh that brought her back to her childhood, to Mamae and Babae and suddenly the battlefield is gone and-  
  
No. That is not Athevera Lavellan. She looks behind her at the little girl, Minaya. This is Lavellan. She’ll do anything to protect them.  
  
In the face of his laughter, she simply raises an eyebrow. Sixteen summers and she baits death, sneers in its face. He takes the bait and she knows she’s got him. She knows he’s underestimating the young elf. She darts to the left when he steps forward, turning and slamming the pommel of her dagger as hard as she can into his shield hand, causing him to loosen his hold on it. His face twists in rage, turning to face her head on and she darts out of range again, daggers clashing again and again with his sword and shield.  He’s getting tired and she knows it, she only has to-  
  
He catches her foot with his shield, an accidental move, but nearly fatal all the same. He walks towards her, towering and breathing heavily.  
  
“Athevera!” The high pitched tone reminds her she has someone to live for, to fight for. The rage she felt before builds itself back up in her before bubbling up and out.  
  
“Run, Minaya! Find safety!” She scrambles up and rolls to the right, feigning a strike when he moves forward before turning and slamming her foot into his front.  
  
“You can’t keep this up forever, knife-ear.” His smile is cruel and bloodcurdling and she fights off the images of her Mamae on the ground as she defends the Clan.  
  
I am Athevera.  
  
I am the Second.  
  
I am Lavellan.  
  
She smiles, dark and venomous. “You only think that, _seth’lin shemlen._ May your Maker have mercy on you, for I will not grant you the same.”

  
He laughs again and in the distraction she races forward to bury her dagger in the gap in his armor on his side. He coughs and gasps, trying to take her down with him, but she’s too fast. She shifts and buries the second one in his neck.   
  
“I am the Second, and these are my people. You will not harm them!” She bares her teeth in his face and kicks him off of her daggers before turning to survey. Minaya, having found safety with Marivelen and her mother Miranni, runs to her upon seeing that the danger has passed. Athevera kneels to catch her in a bone crushing hug. She pets her hair and checks her for injury.   
  
“She’s unharmed, Athevera. Thanks to you.” Deshanna stands tall next to them, blood smeared on her clothes and speckled on her skin. Miranni smiles brightly next to her Mother and Marivelen looks tired. Athevera only offers her a quirk of her lips.   
  
Later that night, after they’ve moved far from the old camp and are settling down, Deshanna, Miranni and one of the Hahren’s - Namana -  approach her.   
  
“Because of your bravery today many of us yet live, Athevera. You saved Minaya.” Miranni is beaming, pride leaking out of her voice and into her smile.   
  
“I did what any of us would do.” Athevera replies politely.

  
“Yes, you did. But you showed us your loyalty and devotion to the protection of our people. We have come to the decision that you’ve earned your vallaslin. We have decided you earned v _allashanin_ , as well.”   
  
Though her eyebrows raised in surprise, she did not comment. She protected the Clan like the Hunters did. But she agrees for the Marks of Glory anyway, too tired to argue. 

She could not decide that night who to dedicate her vallaslin to, and for the first time since she was very young she knelt to pray to the Gods for guidance. It was clumsy and unpracticed and yet under the light of the moon she felt safe to utter the words.

When she finished up she heard muttering around the corner and stood up to investigate only to find Marivelen trying to treat some minor scratches and burn wounds on her own.

This is how she finds herself with green glow of healing magic ghosting over the minor cuts and bruising on her friends - _friends? family? enemy?_ \- skin, slowly reknitting the skin together. They don’t talk much through it.

It is after this that she is brought to Sylaise for her vallaslin - the Hearthmaker, bringer of fire. As Second, she believes it is fitting. But right on her collar bone, she gets her _vallasdin'vhen_ \- marks of mourning. She gets a halla, shrouded in the dark for her parents, to remind her to keep her secrets close and heart closer.

She thanks the Creators for their guidance.  
  
She decides after the attack that this will never happen again. She studies book after book of human politics - when she can save enough money to get her hands on them, it’s mostly reading the same book for a few months. She travels into the towns with the hunters who go to trade there.   
  
By nineteen years of age, she has become a capable spy. No one expects the lithe elf, just a bit taller than normal but not too much so, to hold so much. To know so much.

  
But she knows their truths. She knows the hatred that shems hold in their hearts, knows the wickedness that lies within. Her network ranges throughout the Clans of Thedas, each letter being passed from halla to bird and back again; however it could get to her.

Athevera marks hostile towns and sent notice to other clans. She spends hours tracking the movement of other clans and humans alike, posts set up in nearly every town they passed by. Marivelen joins her, loyal the end and a more than suitable spy.

No shem could even begin to track her or her network, with her correspondence as heavily coded as they were. Decipherable to only those who know and they still would not betray her; betray the Dalish.  
  
It’s this reason that she begins flagging down anything to do with the Left Hand of the Divine, ‘Imperial Nightingale Of Orlais’. 

 _(Though, Athevera wonders why she needs both monikers, but chalks it up to human arrogance.)_   
  
It’s a day after her twenty-sixth birthday that she receives word of it. She prepares for the Conclave months in advance; just as the Divine does. Knowing that war is coming, she recommends Deshanna move the clan as far from Kirkwall as she can, having tracked the hostile relations in the Free Marcher City-State.   
  
Knowledge is power, and she would use that power to protect. They are months away from Kirkwall when the one called ‘Hawke’ is being chased from it, with the Chantry in shambles and struggling to hold control. 

She departs weeks before the Conclave is announced, staking out and collecting information. Athevera leaves her Network in Marivelen’s pliable hands, trusting her to take care of the Clan in her absence. Miranni sends her off tearfully and with lots of packed goods. Marivelen punches her shoulder before she goes and Athevera mutters about not caring so much.

She saves rebel mages and shelters elves fleeing the chaos, using every resource she has to her advantage. She never expected for the Conclave to go so poorly.

She never expected to become Second - no, _First_ , to an entirely different Clan.

The Inquisition.

She can never bring back her parents, never go back to Clan Ralaferin or Clan Lavellan. But, when she looks around, she sees the battle-worn faces of the people who need her. In them she sees her parents, she sees her Clan. And so she becomes First to the Inquisition in her mind's eye; fiercely protective and feigning indifference. 

She’d never say so, if anyone asked. But they know.

She may have never become First of Clan Lavellan. But she became the First of the Inquisition.

They know.

**Author's Note:**

> I used Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Lexicon by FenxShiral https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848/chapters/8237548?view_adult=true and Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Language by FenxShiral https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850
> 
> Words used:  
> da’assan - Little arrow, term of endearment  
> da’lan - feminine version of da’lin, child.  
> telamaan - horrible, disgusting  
> ethas na - be safe / make yourself safe  
> Tuelanen ama na - creators protect you  
> ir abelas - im sorry  
> Nuvenan ma son - I hope you are well  
> Savhalla - hello  
> Gaildahlas - elvhen word for embrium, similar to saying ‘sweetie’  
> telahna - hush, to be quiet, to not to speak  
> aenor - prey  
> seth’lin shemlen - thinblooded human


End file.
